Home is Where the Heart is
by DemyxTheMenace
Summary: "All he wants is to crawl up in his soft bed at the Lucky 38, preferably next to his favorite sarcastic doctor with a clean pair of underwear and a belly full of something meaty that wasn't Gecko or Brahmin. Is that too much to ask?" Or the one where all Courier want to do is get home after Honest Hearts. Minor spoilers for HH. Minor Arcade/Male Courier. Ficlet.


Disclaimer: Me no owney.

On another note, I just finished Honest Hearts and began Old World Blues, so I might have more where this came from if I find OWB particularly inspiring. This particular fic though, stemmed from how I thought my character, Aaron, would feel had he just been stuck in Utah for two months battling savages and making friends. I figure, Good guy that he is, he would miss his friends and the Wasteland in general. SO this.

On a side side note, I just discovered the greatness that is Fallout: Nuka Break, a fanmade mini series on youtube. If you haven't watched it, it's pretty great. I quite enjoyed it and can't wait for season 2.

Enjoy your read, kick back with a Nuka Cola, and let me tell you the tale of my Courier and his wonderful misadventures.

(A/N 3/22/13): So this is the first part to my Cordial Courier 'verse. I have part three written, but I'm working on part 2 so I can put it up! Stay tuned!

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Aaron wasn't particularly known for his speed. Sure, he was a courier and a hand-to-hand combat specialist, but his legs didn't necessarily move as fast as his fists could. On rare occasions (like that time he and Veronica had been sparring and had accidentally tumbled - literally - upon a den of Cazadores, or when Raul had accidentally pissed off that Lakelurk enough to have it's whole flock chase after them) he'd been known to outrun all seven of his enlisted followers. But those times were rare and far and few in between. Mostly, he stuck to hitting whatever came within a ten-foot radius of him or whoever graced him with their presence by trudging with him through the Mojave. Most of the time it was simply he and ED-E, and the eyebot was better at shooting things down with his lasers then letting Aaron dismember enemies with his Thermic Lance. The loyal bot didn't let things get within an unspoken forty feet perimeter around them. The only thing that had had been a Deathclaw, and it had nearly ripped both human and robot apart.

Aaron wasn't known to run at all, honestly, and if the complaints of how slow he went while "adventuring" were any indication, he should probably start doing some sort of exercise, but he'd never gotten around to it. Mostly because Boone was more interested in using a homemade range, Cass already made fun of him at every turn for being "less of a man," Lily has too many marbles loose to be let out in public without constant supervision (and to be frank, most would shoot at a giant Nightkin running after a poor red-faced man who obviously needed to work out more), Raul was old, Arcade was usually busy doing Follower things (and he was as athletic as Aaron was, read: not at all), and Veronica outran him. Every. Single. Time. She didn't even bother with waiting for Aaron, or maybe taking it slow or anything. She got into a zone and "didn't want to be bothered with his slow ass."

It all boiled down to his anti-athleticism, Aaron thought. He'd cursed himself a million times over for not taking measures into his own hands, instead wallowing in his alleged lack of friendship to bother. He'd taken all of them from whatever hell-hole they'd been unhappy with and allowed them free reign in a fucking _casino_ in _New Vegas_, with a steady flow of caps he shared amongst them for all the good Samaritan deeds he'd done all over the Wasteland. But no one wanted to take a few hours from his or her day to help poor old Courier out and make his life so much easier by just exercising with him. He'd complained endlessly about it. _No-o, no one wants to do that, why would they, right? I've only saved them from boring and uneventful lives and some of them might even be dead by now if not for me! Arcade, aren't you listening to me?_

Arcade had only patted him on the head gently, sparing a glance over the top of his black-rimmed glasses and muttering a simple _"Oh Ronnie."_

Aaron will hold that regret to his very soul for the rest of his life. Even in the afterlife, if there was such thing. All he wants is to crawl up in his soft bed at the Lucky 38, preferably next to his favorite sarcastic doctor with a clean pair of underwear and a belly full of something meaty that wasn't Gecko or Brahmin. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

Aaron pushed himself harder, discarding more Turbo canisters then he'd admit to, and steadied his gaze on the bright lights of the Strip. He'd spent nearly two months in Zion and he would very much like to be back in the company of his slightly-more-sane gang of misfits. If he has to spend another night (pointedly _not_ sleeping) laying on a scratchy Brahmin skin with the walls of huge orange rock looming over him, he swears he'll break down and start sobbing. Aaron is close to sobbing now out of frustration. He missed them, so bad he was actually surprised. He missed the whir of ED-E's servers, the companionable silence he and Boone shared, the never-ending chatter that spewed out of Veronica's mouth, the heavy inhale-exhale of Lily at his back, the constant clicks of Raul tinkering with something, the way he could come back stinking of sweat and blood to find Arcade sprawled out in the master bedroom to just curl up next to him, and he would still wake up with an armful of pale skin and blonde hair. He'd even missed the hits at his masculinity Cass seemed to find a never-ending cache of. The hollow feeling in his chest when he'd cracked that first awful pun of "Just Joshing ya" to the former Legate and missed Veronica's dry chuckle was astonishing. He'd had a few moments like that, where he'd turn to announce his plans to Boone only to find Follows-Chalk staring at him blankly. Or where he'd drop into a crouch to ask Cass to spot him as he pulled out his bulky Anti-Material Rifle, and Waking Cloud's gentle tone answered him.

He's maybe an hour's walk from the Lucky 38 but he can't seem to summon the willpower to not just drop and gasp in air like a drowning man. He procures another container of Turbo out of his bag but falters when he goes to administer it. Aaron may be slow and a little lazy, but he's not one to just quit. He doesn't fancy himself a cheater either, so he stows away the Turbo and keeps his mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Aaron gets to the Strip gate without any hassle from Freeside thugs thanks to a couple of King escorts, and he could cry with how grateful he is. They don't accept any payment; just tell him to get back home safely and to drop by sometime, calling out farewells loudly and with their normal rowdy disposition. Aaron steels himself for another couple minutes of excruciating pain in his legs, pointedly doesn't take any Med-X, and shuffles as quickly as he can towards the 38 doors.

Victor is nice enough to pull the door open for him when he notices Aaron isn't carrying his Thermic Lance to prop the heavy metal open himself. He asks where he's been the past few months and is he okay? Tells him that his friends were worried. Aaron nods and thanks Victor, directs a smile at him and says _don't worry I'm fine_. The elevator ride is somehow worse than his whole trek from Zion to get back home. Aaron thinks it's because now his body is forced to deal with his Turbo withdrawal and the fact that his feet are probably gone, reduced to bloody nubs when he wasn't paying attention.

The elevator dings and Victor's voice over the intercom relays to him that he is, in fact, home, in the Presidential Suite of the Lucky 38 hotel and casino. Aaron feels his resolve crumbling as he staggers forward the thirty feet to the end of his bed, watching the Arcade shaped lump startle awake. The doctor bolts for him as soon as the blanket hits the floor, mouth moving a mile-a-minute about something Aaron can't focus on. He's been gone two months, stranded in some remote part of the Wasteland with savages and unlikely friends, and the feeling of finally being home hits him like a freight train and he's laughing and crying and he can feel Arcade pull him into those lanky arms. He drops off into unconsciousness still standing, his face tear-stained and red, his weight draped unceremoniously across Arcade, face pressed to the large damp patch on his shoulder.

He wakes up in a vice like grip around his chest. His first thought is that the White Legs must have gotten into the Sorrow's camp and found him up in his cliff shelter and he begins to struggle. Arcade's sleep-rough alto rings in his ear and he lets out a huge stuttering exhale. His limbs, which had protested the movement in the first place, are throbbing unpleasantly and he groans.

Arcade inhales like he's going to say something but halts, his attention dragged to the stretch of skin covered by Aaron's right shirtsleeve. Aaron suddenly takes into account his state of undress and wonders if it was difficult to get the combat armor plates off of him, but before he can ask Arcade is asking in a strangled monotone, "Is that a horse?"

Aaron peeks over his shoulder, his neck only slightly protesting the muscle twist and barks out a laugh. The temporary tattoo Follows-Chalk had given him after he'd saved the Bighorner calf was what had caught the doctor's attention. He shakes with a few more snickers and burrows further into Arcade's embrace with a sleepy "_It's a long story_."

A story he can certainly relay when he has the full company in the suite and _certainly_ not when he's weak and recovering from insomnia and all forms of PTSD he didn't even know he could have, not to mention a few choice drug withdrawals and in serious need of a bath. He slurs this much to Arcade and the man only sighs in a way that conveys both annoyance and a complete and utter lack of care to how Aaron got back to him, only that he's glad he did. At least, that's how it is in Aaron's delirious brain. He can't be too far off when Arcade tells him to sleep a few more hours and then they'd try for a bath.

Hours after "a few more hours" later, Boone and Veronica, closely followed by ED-E and Raul find the two squeaky clean and cuddling in the Master Bedroom. Veronica lets out a girlish squeal and a loud "COURIER!"

When the couple raise sleepy heads to peer at them over the baseboard Boone makes a show of pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering darkly to himself. He gives Aaron what would be an unreadable glare, but in Boone-speak means _we will talk about this later and not when your boyfriend is spooning you_. Which is silly because Arcade and Aaron haven't even had the discussion on what they are and where their relationship is headed yet. Cass throws her hands up in an incredible show of rage and barks out a "The fuck have you been?"

Behind them, while Boone creeps out of the room, ED-E flies forward to bump Aaron's head playfully and Raul calls a "_nice to see you boss_."

Lily comes in not minutes later to fret about _not finding my sweet grandson Ronnie anywhere and hey! Would you look at that Leo, there he is!_

Aaron tried his best to hide in the sheets while Arcade simply draws him closer, a smirk pressed against the back of his neck.

_Home sweet home_, Aaron thinks. And he couldn't be happier.


End file.
